


Nocturne

by flyingcrane



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Drug Dealing, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Gang Violence, Gun Violence, Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mafia Boss Victor, Minor Character Death, Multi, Organized Crime, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rape/Non-con Elements, Russian Mafia, Stripper Yuri, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-07 06:41:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8787628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingcrane/pseuds/flyingcrane
Summary: Yuuri can't fix Victor without breaking himself too.





	1. Op.27 No.7 in C-Sharp Minor

 

 

The first time Yuuri sees him, he’s in the middle of his most popular routines.

 

It’s the typical weekend crowd with plenty of regulars and new faces alike, but there’s one in the background who isn’t so typical-looking, who stands out from the crowd despite being the quietest one. The man is beautiful in a way that makes Yuuri’s heart race and face flush, with high aristocratic cheekbones and pale, fresh-snow skin and sharp eyes like diamonds.

 

He feels those eyes on him from even across the room, so different than the leers and unfocused stares of the other men around the stage that he stumbles for the first time since working at the club full-time.

 

He saves it, thankfully, and the panic from nearly falling off the stage makes him refocus on the rest of the song with even more flourish than usual. He finishes with the hot spotlights pounding down on him, chest heaving beneath the sheer black mesh and thighs tight around the pole as he bends backwards, nearly in half, with his hair brushing the glitter-covered stage. The regulars cheer and whistle and the new faces throw money in bands right to his feet, stick them in the tight black thigh-highs that are apart of his outfit, and he doesn’t let himself think about the mysterious man with steel colored hair and piercing gaze until he’s off stage.

 

He winces when he makes it to the backroom where everyone's costumes are, more than happy to take off the black heels and sit in silence as the others go out to entertain the guests or do their own routines. He’d wanted to wish Phichit good luck before going on tonight since their crowd is bigger than usual, but Phichit was scheduled right after him.

 

“Twenty-four thousand...twenty-five thousand…twenty-six thousand...” he counts under his breath. He squeezes his eyes shut and resists the urge to scream when he finds he’s only made twenty-eight thousand rubles. He clutches the money tightly with his arms crossed over his stomach, bending over until his forehead touched his knees.

 

 _It’s not enough_ , he thinks desperately, tears threatening to fall. _It’s okay, it’s okay, I have four more days before the next bill is overdue...four more days, I can do this, I have to do this._

 

A knock startles him out of his spiraling thoughts.

 

He sits up and stashes his money, blinking back tears and wondering who could be at the door. The owner and the manager are usually on the floor pandering to their VIP customers and none of the performers knock since it’s a shared dressing room. He pulls on a robe quickly and goes to the door, blinking up at an intimidating looking man in a black suit.

 

“Ah, hello...can I help you?” He asks in broken Russian.

 

He’s sure he doesn’t know the man even though he’s seen his type often enough. The bodyguards that skulk in the shadows of the club, watching their clients with hawk-like gazes and quietly threatening demeanors. They don’t usually talk though, and they never approach a dancer of their own accord.

 

“Are you Eros?” The mans voice is deep and lacks emotion.

 

Yuuri can only jerkily nod.

 

“You have an audience with my client. Follow me.” His tone leaves no room for argument.

 

Yuuri colors and clutches his robes tighter. “Wait-” he starts, but the man is already walking away. Even after a year of living here, he doesn't know enough Russian to tell the man he doesn’t do private performances, and the manager isn’t here to translate for him, but he knows saying ‘no’ outright will get him into trouble. Maybe he can reason with the man’s client?

 

He slips on a pair of black boots and hurries after the other man, feet stinging the entire way.

 

The room he’s escorted to is situated in the far back where Yuuri knows the other dancers take their clients for extra things and his already rapid heartbeat kicks up a few paces.

 

“In here,” the bodyguard says, nodding to one of the master suites.

 

Yuuri swallows thickly, aware of what’s inside, and steps through the door on shaking legs.

 

The room is beautiful and tasteful, designed like the living room of an extravagant apartment with modern, minimalist decor and doorways leading to a bedroom, bathroom, and special play room. There’s soft music playing in the background, classical and sad with just piano, but what catches his attention immediately is the man standing in front of the fireplace.

 

“Um, excuse me?” He tentatively calls, stepping further into the main room.

 

The man turns to face him and his breath catches in his throat when he recognizes who it is.

 

The man smiles and it doesn’t reach his eyes, flickering ominously in the firelight. “Hello there,” he greets, gesturing to one of the couches. He says something else, Russian smooth and rolling off his tongue with beautiful ease, and Yuuri understands none of it.

 

He gets the gist though.

 

He walks over with more confidence than he actually feels and settles on the couch across from where the other man has decided to sit with his legs elegantly crossed, curls his hands into the fabric of his ridiculously short robe to keep them from clenching and unclenching with restless, nervous energy.

 

The man says something else in Russian, expression still deceptively kind, but it’s beyond Yuuri’s comprehension.

 

“Ah, um, I can’t-” he stutters.

 

The man blinks once before switching to English. “You don’t speak very much Russian, do you?”

 

Thankfully, Yuuri’s English is enough for him to understand all of that and respond, flushing, “No, I don’t.”

 

The man’s mouth curls into a smile again but it doesn’t fit as strangely as the first one did. It’s not as forcefully polite, but Yuuri’s pulse jumps anyways. “I asked your name.”

 

Yui blinks in surprise. No one asks for names around here. Names are dangerous. Names hold power. But it’s not like he has much power in the first place, or much to take power over. So he responds, “Yuuri.”

 

“Yuuri,” the man repeats, tongue curling around his name attractively. “My name is Victor. It’s nice to meet you.”

 

He sounds like he means it and Yuuri’s receding flush comes back full force. “N-Nice to meet you to, V-Victor.”

 

Victor’s head tilts, silky hair catching the light. “Do you know why I asked you here?”

 

He shifts uncomfortably despite the softness of the cushions, still very aware that he’s in nothing but a thin robe and his costume with a probably very powerful man who more than likely wants something from him he’s not willing to give. “I’m sorry but I don’t do private shows or...requests.”

 

“Oh?” Victor sounds intrigued instead of angry. He leans forward and the firelight does nothing to warm his face or his voice. “So if I offered you thirty-thousand rubles to get down on your pretty knees for me right now, you would say no?”

 

Heat flashes through Yuuri like an earthquake, shakes him from his feet up. His faces colors for a completely different reason now as lust, indignation, and hope wage war in his chest. He doesn’t think of his sister, doesn’t think of his looming debt, and settles for disgust as he schools his features into something much more like his persona, expression settling into cool disinterest with just a touch of condescension. “No, I would ask if you understood English first, and then I would say no.”

 

Victor looks vaguely amused now, the corners of his lips twitching as if he wants to laugh but he doesn’t quite know how. “Hm, is that so?” He stands in one fluid movement, hands sliding into his pockets with a raised silver eyebrow. “Not even for a hundred-thousand? Two-hundred? What’s your price?”

 

Anger is a volatile anchor but it’s one Yuuri clings to now. “So desperate for a whore’s mouth?”

 

In a flash, Victor is leaning over him, one hand clutching the back of the couch and the other grabbing his jaw in a tight but not quite painful grip. Victor looks down at him like a scientist studying an insect, but his eyes catch on his lips. “Perhaps I want more than just your mouth. How much would it take for you to give me your body?”

 

Yuuri tries to turn his face away, but Victor’s fingers bite into his skin. “I don’t want your money.”

 

Victor’s knee slides onto the couch between his thighs and he looms ever closer, eyes suddenly dark and intent and it makes the blood pounding through his ears roar. “Everyone wants my money, and everyone has a price. I can give you whatever you want.”

 

He was wrong about likening Victor’s eyes to diamonds. Diamonds have cut, clarity, color - Victor’s eyes have none of that. It’s like staring at a frozen lake and trying not to drown in the unforgivingly cold waters.

 

Abruptly, Victor is no longer hovering over him. He’s by the fireplace again and watching the wood burn, just like when Yuuri walked in, and Yuuri wonders if the other man could read his thoughts and is trying to thaw out his own heart. He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care. He stands on trembling legs and heads for the door at the clear dismissal, but he can’t help but throw over his shoulder, “How can a man who doesn’t know what he wants possibly know what _I_ want?”

 

The door clicks behind him, shutting him away from Victor that that awful, haunting music.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri doesn’t see Victor for the rest of the week, and he doesn’t expect to.

 

He squashes the little bit of something like heartbreak that threatens to distract him from his upcoming show.

 

He knows plenty men like that, men with influence and arrogance and money to throw around, who spout promises in the same breath they break them. Men who make subtle threats as easily as they whisper silky compliments. He shouldn’t feel a twinge of disappointment when he glances in the back where he first saw Victor only to see a different man in his place, but it's easy enough to brush aside.

 

He can’t be distracted, not tonight. He has to do well enough to make forty-thousand rubles or else he’s going to be fined again for a late payment, and he can’t afford that. Just one more unpaid fine to pile on top of interest and debt and-

 

“Uh, Eros?”

 

Yuuri’s head shoots up and is surprised to see his friend Phichit sticking his head into the dressing room. “Phich-ah, King, what is it?”

 

His friends brows are furrowed. “There’s a guy here who says you have a meeting with his client? The manager said to switch our time slots so you have an hour to...meet with him, I guess.”

 

A wicked feeling of deja vu overcomes Yuuri for a moment before he forces a smile on his face. “Ah, it’s alright. Sorry for the trouble! It shouldn’t take too long.” Phichit still looks unconvinced and is reluctant to leave because he's a good friend, the only real friend he has out here when they met and bonded the first night he started working, but Yuuri gets him to leave soon enough. He takes a deep breath before leaving the dressing room only to encounter the same bodyguard from before, and he just barely keeps himself from throwing up all over the mans shoes.

 

 _I’m going to die_ , he thinks, stunned and on the edge of hysterical.

 

If Victor is as rich and powerful as he implied, then even his popularity and the upscale nature of the club he works at wouldn’t protect him from the mans wrath.

 

He’s brought to a secret exit out the back of the building and led to a sleek black limo, and Yuuri feels his hands trembling.

 

He almost doesn’t go in, but the bodyguard doesn’t leave and Yuuri has less than zero chances of escaping. Maybe he can talk his way out of it? He can’t die. Not now, not for a while, not until his sister-

 

The car door opens for him and his body moves as if it’s on autopilot.

 

The low light of the car is different from the light of a fire and there’s no eerie piano chiming in the background. There’s just Victor, sitting by the window on the opposite bench in a different suit, just as striking and compelling as before.

 

“Yuuri, it’s good to see you again,” Victor says pleasantly, and Yuuri can pick up on how false it is.

 

“Victor,” Yuuri replies evenly, voice small.

 

Victor turns back to look out the window and they don’t say anything as the car starts to move, and it all just makes the bile in Yuuri’s stomach churn with dread and icy fear. He’s going to die. He’s going to die, and no one will know. No one will be able to identify the poor Japanese boy found on the side of the street on the outskirts of Moscow, so far from home, and it will be a sad story that takes two inches of the local newspaper before he disappears into obscurity like so many others.

 

Before Yuuri can speak, Victor says, “I know what you want, Yuuri.”

 

Yuuri’s eyes follow the easy lines of the mans body, relaxed on the plush leather seats and at home in a thousand dollar suit. Victor doesn’t look back, even when he asks, “Do you?”

 

Victor’s gloved hand rises from his lap to rest by the window, finger tapping once, twice, three times, expression not changing even once since Yuuri got in the car. “Yuuri Katsuki. Or, Katsuki Yuuri, as it’s said in your home country.”

 

Yuuri feels all the color drain from his face, feels his heart sink to his stomach and the trembling in his hands worsen until his whole body is practically shaking.

 

Victor continues as if he hasn’t just turned Yuuri’s world on it’s head. “Dead parents who left no money to their children from gambling debts, raised by your older sister who is now sick and dying in a hospital bed in the center of Moscow, Russia because it is the only place that would accept your application to their experimental treatment so long as you paid your dues. Decided you would use your skills as a budding ice skater and dance at one of the nicer gentlemen’s clubs to pay for those bills.”

 

Victor finally turns to look at him and his smile is as cutting as his words.

 

“You see, Yuuri. It’s not hard to guess what someone wants when you know their life story.” His legs uncross and he leans forward, gloved hand resting gently on Yuuri’s knee and Yuuri wants more than anything to push it off, but he’s frozen in place. “You are just like everyone else, not at all special or different like you like to believe. Perhaps you don’t want my money, exactly, but you _need_ it. For your darling older sister and for you. You want her to get better and not leave you all alone. I can do that for you.”

 

Yuuri’s lashes flutter, tears threatening to fall. His chest is tight, so tight, filling with despair because he thinks he knows where this is going. He’s seen this destination in the broken gaits of acquaintances who entertain their guests and walk back with fuller pockets and emptier eyes, in the glasses of whiskey women and men drink til their heads tilt back and the sizzling tablet sitting at the bottom slides down, down, down until they don’t get back up again.

 

“You told me I could only know what you want if I knew what I wanted. I know what I want now, Yuuri.” The hand on his knee tightens. “Ask me.”

 

Desperation and resignation are minor feelings in the chaos of his mind but they still live in the shortness of his breath and the coldness of his fingers. He knows how this game is played and he dances reluctantly to the silver Pied Piper’s tune. “And what do you want, Victor?”

 

Those long, slender fingers leave bruises in their wake as Victor smiles. “You.”

 


	2. Op.55 No.1 in F-Minor

 

Yuuri should’ve expected this. He should’ve, but didn’t, and it’s like a punch in the gut.

 

His apartment is empty.

 

He supposes it’s not the first mistake he’s made concerning Victor, though.

 

The furniture he’s spent months collecting to make the place home is all gone and probably burning in a dumpster fire somewhere, the kitchen is bare, and no matter where he looks, he can’t find the small photo album of him and his family - mainly his sister - he usually kept on the now nonexistent nightstand. The lights are out and he’s willing to bet his water is no longer running, all the money he’s stashed in secret hidey-holes is more than likely taken, and all he has are the clothes on his back and in his backpack, and the few hundred rubles in his pocket.

 

_Six hours. He did all this in six hours._

 

There’s nothing but a yellow manila envelope pinned to the back of his front door right above the peep-hole, and Yuuri’s too tired, too worn to really feel anything but a flicker of ire before it dissipates into the chilly air. He’s sure he’s in shock too, knows that the tether keeping him sane is the fact that panicking will do absolutely nothing to change his situation. In the span of less than a week, his entire life has been upended. In the last day, he’s essentially sold his soul to the silver-haired devil himself.

 

He rips the envelope off the door and wonders if his parents are looking down at him, weeping at their children's fates.

 

_“What does that mean?”_

 

_Victor’s hand loosens its grip, but it doesn’t pull away. “Don’t you understand English, Yuuri?” Yuuri flinches and bites his lip at having his words thrown back at him. “It means what it sounds like. An offer.”_

 

_“One that I can’t refuse.”_

 

_Victor’s eyes close when he smiles this time, pleased with his answer, like a sly fox who has caught his fleeing prey oh so easily. “You always have a choice Yuuri, never forget that. It’s up to you to choose correctly, though.” He speaks as if from experience, mocking and dangerous, a warning._

 

_The question comes out as a shaky exhale and an agreement. “Why?”_

 

_“Why indeed,” Victor muses, an unfathomable look flitting over his porcelain face, as if he himself is intrigued by his words. “A contract will be drawn up for you. Read it, sign it, and call me when you are done.”_

 

_The car stops in front of the hospital._

 

_Victor knows the question before Yuuri asks. “You will not be working at Celestino’s club anymore. After you sign the contract, you will only dance for me.”_

 

_The smile falls from Victor’s face and his hand retreats, folded calmly into his lap as he looks back out the window. Like he’s used up all his acts of humanity in the last few minutes and is receding back to his normal state of chilly, lifeless indifference. It makes Yuuri wonder if the blue fire he saw flashing vividly in those eyes was nothing but a trick of the light when there’s nothing in them now, but he can’t mistake the edge in Victor’s expression as anything but satisfaction._

 

_Victor isn’t looking at him, but his knowing gaze is what stays with Yuuri as he stumbles out of the car._

 

He’d held his sister’s hand and had whispered reassurances he didn’t believe, nearly begged her to forgive him for being such an unreliable little brother, and had spent the rest of the afternoon and evening by her bedside, asking himself _why._

 

He still doesn’t have the answer, even after reading over the twelve-pages outlining their ‘agreement’ three times by the poor lamplight outside his apartment. He’s both worried and relieved at the level of detail and professionalism.

 

It really does seem like nothing but a business transaction with pages explaining what’s expected of him, what he can expect of Victor, and it makes Yuuri feel a little less pathetic even though he knows the legal jargon and fancy wording all boil down to Victor owning him in return for paying for his sister's treatment and hospital bills. One page in and his empty home make it clear he’s not just at Victor's beck and call. The contract says he’s going to be _living_ with the man in his estate, will be expected to do whatever he’s asked within the realm of his capabilities, and Yuuri can almost convince himself he’ll have some modicum of control.

 

He nearly laughs himself to tears when he reaches the end of the contract and finally finds out Victors last name, because _of course._

 

_Victor Nikiforov._

 

Working at a gentlemen's club, Yuuri is more than able to overhear all kinds of business and political talks, and no matter what company or subject his brought up, _Nikiforov_ is always included somewhere in reverent whispers or angry hisses. He doesn’t know much about Victor personally, even though rumors, but he’s heard enough that he’s sure his instinctive fear will somehow carry over with him into his next life.

 

And just his luck, such a dangerous man wants him to be his plaything for the foreseeable future.

 

_A useless end for a useless person like me._

 

Yuuri hadn’t danced much today but he’s more exhausted than he can remember and settles on the floor of where his bed used to be, using his backpack as a pillow and wrapping his arms around himself to stave off the creeping chill in the air. He’ll read the contract one more time in the morning and then...

 

Tomorrow. Victor can wait one more night before another body warms his bed.

 

* * *

 

Waking up the next day doesn’t dispel the nightmare he’s fallen into.

 

The contract is still there, crinkled where his hands had curled into the paper without thought, and none of his belongings have miraculously returned to his terrible apartment. Leaving isn’t as hard as he might’ve thought, but he supposes he’s having an out of body experience when he sees the eviction notice on his door and he doesn’t even feel the tell-tale panic that had been creeping up on him last night. His body aches from sleeping on the floor but it’s nothing compared to what’s happening inside.

 

He doesn’t want to call. Not yet. Not when he knows his freedom will disappear as soon as he does.

 

Instead, he takes a walk.

 

The neighborhood isn’t a very good one, but it’s a twenty minute walk to his sisters hospital and near an old ice skating rink that he visits when he has time or isn’t too tired. It’s run by the only Japanese people he knows in the area, probably the only Asian foreigners within a twenty mile radius, and they’re kind and understanding and don’t ask too many questions. He likes to think they’re friends even though he knows they have three children he’ll never meet.

 

“Yuuri! We haven’t seen you in a while, how have you been?” Yuuko, the owner of the rink, asks sweetly with a bright grin.

 

Something as simple as speaking his native language and seeing a kind, familiar face is enough to make him want to break down and cry, but he holds it back. He smiles instead and lets her link arms with him as they head to the main ice skating area where it’s empty and quiet in the early morning hours.

 

“Things are good,” he lies, making a show of looking around the large arena as he pulls on the skates she lends him, “Where’s Takeshi-san? Out on business again?”

 

He doesn’t ask about her girls because it always brings a nervous edge to Yuuko’s smile and he doesn’t want that, especially not today of all days.

 

Yuuko sighs exaggeratedly and watches idly has he ties his skates. “You know how he can be. Work, work, work. But he’s always home by supper and plays with the girls as much as he can so I can’t stay too mad at him. Where’s Phichit-kun today? You two work late last night?”

 

 _He probably had to pull a double shift since I didn’t come back,_ Yuuri thinks guiltily but answers, “Something like that. Said he had a date too so he’s probably sleeping in to get ready later tonight.”

 

Yuuko _tsks_ at him. “You two work too much. All work and no play makes Yuuri a very tired and clumsy ice skater!”

 

Yuuri manages a laugh as he stands and stretches. “As you say, Yuuko-san.”

 

His first steps on the ice are always unsteady, but the familiar glide of sharp metal on smooth ice is a soothing sensation that seems to melt his worries for now. After a few warm up laps around the rink, he attempts a triple axel and a grin nearly splits his face when he lands it, Yuuko cheering on the sidelines. The pressure on his chest lifts, barely, but it’s enough.

 

He never made it passed junior division because of his sister's sickness, never got to skate with the greats, but he likes to think he could’ve become one of them one day and wonders what the announcers would say as he entered the rink.

 

_“Look at that beautiful step sequence by Japan’s very own Katsuki Yuuri! Ranked number one in the nation, he’s taking the ice skating world by storm!”_

 

_“Hasetsu’s pride and joy, Katsuki Yuuri has qualified for the Grand Prix!”_

 

He can imagine it sometimes, the future he could’ve had in the right circumstances. Bright lights and glassy ice, the cheers of hundreds and thousands of people roaring like a soundtrack of victory. Medals and flowers and congratulations. The quiet moments in an empty rink with just the music as his company, dancing with him through spins that make him giddy and jumps that leave him breathless. Friends and family and rivals by his side.

 

_Would Victor like ice skating?_

 

Triple loop.

 

_What am I thinking? Why would Victor even consider it?_

 

Double axel, double toe loop.

 

_Would he let me come back here?_

 

Triple lutz.

 

_Would he even care beyond keeping me under his thumb?_

 

Quadruple Salchow.

 

_Does it even matter?_

 

Yuuri hisses under his breath as the layback spin pulls on his sore muscles, but he finishes the routine with as much passion as he can manage, grateful and sad to hear Yuuko cheering excitedly in the background.

 

As she flutters around and puts away his skates, he makes the call with a heavy heart.

 

In the meantime, he talks with Yuuko a bit, catches up on her life, promises he and Phichit will be careful and assures ger that he’ll be back again to show her junior class a few moves. It’s the first time she’s asked him something like this, and he promises to be there.

 

The lie isn’t as bitter on his tongue as he thought it would be.

 

* * *

 

There’s a car waiting just outside the rink and he’s grateful Yuuko hadn’t walked outside with him. It’s sleek and black and luxurious, exactly the same kind that picked him up behind the strip club just last night - _has it really only been one night? -_ and Yuuri has to resist the urge to throw a rock at the pristine paint job.

 

Thankfully, Victor isn’t in the car, but it means the ride to his house feels even longer without a distraction. It takes a good hour before they pull up to a gate and a long, heavily guarded driveway.

 

The estate is, of course, grand.

 

It’s probably been passed down for generations, looks regal and proud in the blazing sun, and Yuuri wonders how much blood soaks its foundations.

 

An older, severe looking man comes up to the door and opens it for him. He’s not the chauffeur, and by the uncomfortable look on the younger mans face behind him, Yuuri’s assuming the old man isn’t supposed to be opening car doors for strangers, but Yuuri gets out anyway and tries not to fidget under his narrow-eyed scrutiny. He’s never been ashamed of his clothes or his appearance - he doesn’t have time to be - but the other man is making him feel surprisingly insecure.

 

The old man says something to him, accent thick and voice grizzly, before switching to English. “Yuuri Katsuki. We’ve been expecting your arrival. Follow me.”

 

Yuuri watches the surprisingly spry man walk up to the intimidating, baroque doors of the estate and nearly trips over his own feet when he realizes the man is expecting him to be right behind him. He hugs his backpack to his chest, shaking his head frantically at the concerned young man who must be a butler or something who gestures taking it, and tries to ignore the feeling that he’s extremely out of place.

 

“Vitya’s study is this way. Don’t get lost or you might stumble on something you shouldn’t see,” the old man grins, wide and vicious.

 

Yuuri doesn’t know how to respond so he says nothing, nodding meekly as he follows the old man through the decorated halls of the manor. There are old pictures everywhere, portraits of stern looking men and women lining the walls along with beautiful painted landscapes. He barely manages to remember the twists and turns before they stop at a set of double doors, and the ominous pit in his stomach grows and grows.

 

“Vitya, your guest is here,” the old man calls, banging on the door and giving Yuuri a heart attack.

 

The door unlatches and the old man gestures for Yuuri to go in before closing it behind him with a cackling laugh.

 

The near deafening silence, only punctuated by an eerie piano melody, that follows right after is almost worse than meeting VIctor again, looking just as regal and out of reach as the last two times Yuuri’s seen him. Victor watches him with carefully crafted apathy and so Yuuri musters up what little courage he can find and sets the slightly crumpled contract onto the table nearest to him, a clear declaration of his intentions even though his arrival is more than enough answer.  

 

Victor doesn’t say a word for a long moment before-

 

“Yuuri.”

 

The office isn’t as big as Yuuri was expecting, imagining it to be dark and cold and proportionate to the size of the manor, but it’s still fairly sizable, which is why Yuuri is so startled when Victor seems to just _appear_ in front of him from across the room.

 

He’s backed into a wall as cool fingers gently touch his cheek, gliding across his heated skin until Victor’s hand his cupping his face, and Yuuri could almost fool himself into thinking the gesture sweet if it not for the fear that suddenly floods his veins. “You kept me waiting,” Victor says, almost casually, eyes tracing over his lips, his nose, the shape of his eyes, like he’s memorizing them all. “You should know by now that I am not a patient man.”

 

Yuuri’s breath rattles in his chest when Victor’s other hand comes up to rest on the wall beside his head, caging him with his body. He manages to glare and refute, “You never said when I had to sign.” Then he can’t help point out irritably, “Besides, I couldn’t find a pen since you _took_ _everything_ out of my apartment.”

 

“Oh, Yuuri,” Victor breathes, so close now Yuuri can feel the line of his body against his own. “Do you really want to play those games with me?”

 

Victor leans in, expression intent, and Yuuri drops his bag while his heart gallops in his chest. The hand on his cheek moves down until it cradles the side of his neck, thumb pressing down the slightest bit on his throat, hard enough for him to feel when he swallows nervously, and Yuuri’s breath hitches when-

 

The door flies open at that moment.

 

His knees nearly give out from relief when Victor sighs and pulls away to face their visitor. “You’re home early.”

 

Yuuri hears someone reply in Russian, something along the lines of ‘damned snow’ and ‘unanswered calls’ until they fall silent.

 

Yuuri peeks around Victor’s body and blinks as the other person comes into view. He almost mistakes the slight figure as a girl because of their shoulder length blond hair and long, graceful strides.

 

Then the blonde turns his narrowed gaze onto _him_ and Yuuri can’t mistake the scornful features as anything but male despite the edge of femininity in the curve of their heart-shaped face and the sharpness of their nose. A male who doesn’t seem at all surprised or happy to see Yuuri, but Yuuri supposes that’s fair. He doesn’t want to be here either.

 

The pretty blonde walks up to them and glares at him with clear disdain, like he’s a bug he found on the bottom of his expensive shoes, and snaps something at Victor in quick Russian. Yuuri recognizes a swear word, and the rest of it isn’t much better. The tirade sounds scathing, a reprimand, and Yuuri’s afraid Victor will- he doesn’t really know, actually, but he’s still afraid because he really doesn’t know what Victor can or will do.

 

Perhaps luckily, Victor doesn’t react much aside from an almost indulgent smile that only seems to infuriate the shorter Russian even more and sends Yuuri’s mind spiraling in confusion because he’s never seen that expression before.

 

“Now Yurio, please speak English. Yuuri doesn’t understand Russian.”

 

The blonde, Yurio, bristles but doesn’t deign to respond, turning quickly on his heels and stalking out of the room and off down the hallway until he disappears from sight. Yuuri isn’t sad to see him go but it makes him nervous to be alone with Victor again.

 

“Don’t mind him,” Victor says, airy and unconcerned, a complete one-eighty compared to the almost sultry tones he’d used with Yuuri minutes before. “Yurio’s still so young and his temper is still fierce.”

 

Yuuri jumps at the hand on his lower back, gently pushing towards the door of the office and guiding him down a different hall from where Yurio stalked down. “Right…”

 

“This wing is where most of the bedrooms and attached bathrooms are and where you will be staying,” Victor explains, waving a hand at the large, ornate wooden doors that all must enclose a grand bedroom of their own. “This is free for you to explore, though there’s not much to do. Someone will fetch you for dinner, but in the meantime, freshen up and make yourself at home.”

 

The same kind, charming smile that fooled Yuuri the first time is back as Victor gestures to a specific door at the end of the hall. Yuuri kind of wants to slap it off his face because it’s even more of a lie now that he knows the truth, but he refrains and hurries to go inside and close the door behind him.

 

Victor doesn’t knock, doesn’t demand entrance. He just walks away.

 

Yuuri’s heart sinks deeper with every step.

 

The room is easily the size of his old apartment, artfully decorated and more modern than what he’s seen of the mansion so far despite the dark oak four poster bed with a canopy. He can see some of his things scattered around, sleek dressers probably filled with his meager clothes and other belongings.

 

It feels alien, having his second-hand things occupying the same space as the massive tv mounted on the wall or the soft, silken sheets draped across the massive bed.

 

And there, on the nightstand, is his photo album, the last piece of his family he has.

 

He sits tentatively on the bed, cradling it in his hands.

 

_And so it begins._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of mistakes and probably boring but I just wanna post it. Starts right after chapter 1 ends. Let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta read, result of episode 10 but no spoilers.


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